


Maestro

by helens78



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-03
Updated: 2005-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hard day's practice, MacLeod needs a bit of release.  Consone isn't surprised by that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maestro

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for MMoM. This was beautifully remixed by Rachael Sabotini as [Gypsy Kiss](http://www.mediafans.org/rachael/highlander/hl_gypsykiss.html), which still makes me happy every time I read it. :)

Practice is over for the day. No one's here but MacLeod. He's got time enough for this.

He braces himself on the wall, head resting against his forearm, and his other hand goes between his legs and starts stroking. The aches and pains from today's session are gone already, but his body still remembers all the hits he took, the jabbing cuts from Maestro Consone, the way Consone's hands felt as they adjusted his posture, his positioning, his arms and hands. Consone is the best teacher MacLeod has ever had; maybe it's the expertise that makes this act, the quick, frantic motions of hand on cock, so necessary. Consone acts like a man who's had lifetimes of training to become a master of the mysterious circle. He acts like a man for whom anything less than perfection is unacceptable.

The buzz hits him mid-stroke, and MacLeod lets out a pained, frustrated grunt as he pulls himself away from the wall and grabs for his towel, wrapping it around his waist and wishing there were somewhere to hide. There's no one else it can be, and he only hopes Consone won't ask. There's no way his towel will conceal how hard he is.

Consone steps into the sauna and closes the door behind him. "How is my _estranjero_ today?" he asks.

"I--"

"--thought you were alone, yes, I can see that." Consone's lips curve into a grin. "That is not the sort of swordwork I teach here, MacLeod."

"My apologies, Maestro--"

"Don't." Consone comes closer, putting a hand on MacLeod's hip and backing him into the wall. MacLeod hisses softly; the tiles aren't as warm as the rest of the room, and he's not sure what Consone intends. Too many of Consone's lessons have been painful; he doesn't trust the man not to continue that trend now.

He's wrong, though. Consone simply parts the folds of MacLeod's towel and wraps his hand around MacLeod's cock, all the while keeping him pinned to the wall with that one firm hand on MacLeod's hip. MacLeod bites his lower lip and groans, head going back against the tiles.

"It's your barbarian blood," Consone murmurs, hand moving with steady, certain efficiency. "It isn't your fault. It isn't something you could control even if you wanted to. Exercise stirs the blood, and your body craves release."

_No_, MacLeod thinks, _it's more than that_, but he isn't going to argue with the man who's stroking his cock and so he closes his eyes and parts his lips, giving him the word he knows Consone expects from him. "Please..."

Consone leans forward and licks MacLeod's lower lip. "Again," he whispers.

"_Please._"

"Good." And Consone twists his hand just right, _there_, as though he's done this a thousand different times for a thousand different men and knows just the right move to make MacLeod come on command. Maybe he's right. Maybe MacLeod couldn't have stopped it even if he'd wanted to.

When Consone steps away from him, MacLeod feels winded. He gets his eyes open and immediately glances away from Consone and the satisfied grin on his face.

"It is nothing to be ashamed of, MacLeod," Consone says, even as he's drying his hand on MacLeod's towel. "But perhaps that's another lesson you haven't learned yet?"

_No_, MacLeod thinks again. But then he wonders what he'll get if the answer's yes, and this becomes another part of his training. _Would you give me your hand that way after every session? Or would you want more from me? My hand, my mouth, my body both on the practice floor and off?_

So he says nothing, and though Consone waits several moments for him to answer, words are not forthcoming.

"Tomorrow, MacLeod. We start at dawn."

"Aye, Maestro."

And then he's gone, the buzz fading along with his footsteps down the hall.

_-end-_


End file.
